The Novena

My friends/church are saying a novena for my healing, starting tonight.  Being a new Catholic, I’m only starting to learn about formal prayers like this, but I welcome it.  Colleen will lead us through what to say and what it means over here (or you can download the printable version).  All are welcome. 

It is true, I have prayed for healing before, and so many prayers have been said on my behalf.  I know it gives me strength and hope.  I have faith that if it is God’s will, I will be healed.

…

When we arrived home from the grocery store this afternoon (stocking up on milk and bread before this evening’s storm), there was a hang-tag on the door that said that flowers had been left at the neighbor’s for me.  Surprised, I checked on a family down the street, as they shoveled their driveway with children in tow, and then walked across to her house.  She met me on the snow-covered lawn, holding these daisies in her hands and saying, “They’re beautiful.”

Well, of course they were, and of course we lingered to chat.  We’re two who could easily be good friends, if not for all the things that separate us, not least the six children, mine all boys and hers all girls, that span the ages from newborn to nine.  And yet we hardly ever see each other, and our houses keep each other company while we remain almost-strangers.

Today we lingered, and when she asked, “How are you?” it just all spilled out, how we had gone to get a scan to see the good news that the cancer was gone, but it was back instead, and how I was in a clinical trial and hopeful and positive but still I’d really rather not be here again.  I stopped and looked at her, embarrassed that I had let all that out, for I don’t really talk about it out loud, and she looked at me and said, “My mother has cancer.”  Her mother was just diagnosed with stage 1, a thousand miles away, and she’s suffering through radiation, harder at her age, I’m sure, and pretty discouraged about it to boot.  We stayed and talked, and I don’t think I said anything too special as I answered her questions about radiation, about fatigue, about how to help her mother as she goes through treatment, but at the end, I hugged her, and she clasped my arm and said, “I think the flowers were meant to be.”

As I walked back home, I marveled at how the flowers had indeed already brought me a moment of cheer and friendship, and I hadn’t yet looked at the card.  But when I looked at the card, I was blown away:

Dear Susan, We see the miracle in the beautiful daisies, so how can we not believe that there is a miracle left for you.  We will keep praying as you keep fighting. Love –

And there it is.  Do I believe in miracles?  You bet.  Always have.  Is that incompatible with being a woman of science?  I don’t think so.  And neither did many great men and women through the ages.  I don’t know how it all works together, I’ll admit, but I know enough to know that just because I don’t understand doesn’t mean that it isn’t true. 

…

At school pickup today, a new friend pressed something into my hands, a relic, she said, and told me to take it, along with her prayers, she said.  “I am praying for you,” she said, and she knows that God hears our prayers.

…

After three days break from the treatment, ordered by my doctor because I lost sensation in my fingertips and thumbs on Thursday, I’ve started taking the medicines again.  That’s progress.  That’s something.  And the arms I’ve clasped today, the friends I’ve shared a smile and a hope with, the faith that has been spoken to me today by Catholic and Orthodox Jew, and the very fact that I’m here having a quiet moment with you — well, today has been a very good day.

And as for the princess?  Well, she keeps popping up on blogs, and she and I spent the early part of the afternoon with Little Bear, building a replica of our house.

A fine bucket of fish

When the snow started, it was beautiful.  I was safe and warm in a conference hotel in the suburbs, and my children were playing happily and reading books with their grandparents at home, oblivious to the storm and thundersnow outdoors.  My husband was away in Palm Springs with men and women who study Saturn, and he marveled at our snow as he sat nestled in a grove of orange trees, connected to me by cell phone and our wonder at the day.

But the snow continued, and the sheer weight of it dragged down the branches onto power lines throughout the Metro area.  The power lines sagged, and broke, and the cable lines came down with them, and the entire area was blanketed with a mix of snow and ice and world-weary branches, and the lines that used to connect us to the outside world were broken.

My cell phone rang, and I heard my parents on other end, telling me that the children were cold, the house had lost power, and asking me what to do.  We packed them off to a hotel, my husband and I, and there we all sat all afternoon and night on Thursday, a family divided among three hotel rooms, separated by miles and more than miles, and we worried.

So many families worried that night.  Kim’s husband was many hours late getting home, having taken three Metro buses and walking much of the way from downtown.  Others arrived in the wee hours of the morning – or even later, having taken refuge at the office, or having spent hour after hour in the car, caught on their way home from Costco or the office or the grocery store.  One by one, The DC Moms checked in online, sharing their stories and worries, and then the floodgates opened and so many were there to keep Kim and the others company during the long wait for their loved ones to arrive home.  Friends kept @delora company on twitter, as she tweeted to stave off boredom as she waited and waited for traffic to move as the snow continued and people downtown abandoned their cars.

Overnight, spouses arrived home and families were reunited, only to lose power as the snow came down and the branches sagged over the lines, dragging the mood with them.  Amy and Jess and Andrea checked in, telling friends they were ok – safe, with their families - but without power, so updates would be sparse.

I don’t know that anyone blogged that night.

But something happened that day.  As the morning went on and the power didn’t, one by one The DC Moms offered each other shelter.  First a guest room and then a couch, the offers poured in from Virginia, from Maryland, and from the close-in burbs, and anyone without power could have her pick of places to stay, with friends, and wine, and playdates. 

No one would be left in the cold.  All one had to do was ask, or simply accept the help that was being offered, freely and with no expectation of return.

As my husband left California and I left my hotel to drive home to my children, the wind blew and there were icy patches underfoot, but I was confident that if I got stuck along the way, I had friends I could call on to pull me out of whatever jam befell me, and I smiled.

…

Our neighborhood was hard-hit, with power lines and cable lines strewn across the streets and branches fallen like so many soldiers by the wayside, and we ducked as we drove back to check the house on Saturday morning.  Our way was blocked by fallen trees once, and the snowplow’s work was incomplete, so we made a tight turn to return the way we came,  single-file.  The lines concerned me most, however, and I worried — and then a branch above us caught fire, like so much kindling, resting against the open power line. 

We were home only briefly, gathering clean clothes and snacks from the pantry, and then C. found me downstairs, staring at the aquarium.  It was 51 degrees, nearly twenty degrees too low for my guppy brood, and they stared at me dully, not moving, just floating quietly as their water threatened to turn to ice. 

We took the time to do a partial water change, suctioning cold water out and pouring hot water in, in hopes that we could perk up a few of the little ones, some the third generation of the guppies that we had first bought last August, when I knew that I would be confined to the house during the last weeks of chemo.  We tried to help them — and then we hedged our bets, taking a dozen baby fish with us to the hotel in a bucket.  It was simple to catch them, really — they didn’t move, there, floating at the top of the cold water.

All through the night and the next day we warmed up that bucket with water from the hotel’s tap, muted with the dechlorination chemical, and we kept an eye on them.  It may have been futile, sure, but at least we tried — we tried — to save the pets in our care.

…

The power came back on, and we started the laundry, and life began to return to normal. 

The fish survived, and we’re all back home, grateful for the little things, like light, and heat, and friendship.

Hooters

I’ve been having the time of my life (you know I love my work) working on a task this week with dozens of incredibly smart people.  It’s been really great, just about perfect, from intellectually engaging discussions during the day to a dip in the warm pool to soothe my body and ease my pains before or after work.  It’s been just the thing I needed to distract me from the recent news and the beginning of the clinical trial.

Until this morning.  When I looked behind me (I’m a front-row kind of gal), I saw something I never expected to see — Hooters t-shirts.

Black. Gray. Red. Back of the room. Presenting up front.  Nine in all, and my heart sank.

WTF? (As Sarah Palin would say.)  As the minutes dragged on and everywhere I looked those circular owl-eyes looked back at me, I tried to hold it together, but it was distracting.  Very distracting from the conversation, which was important.  And then I just got mad, so I left the room to get over it.

On the way out, a colleague shrugged his shoulders, saying, “Those guys.” and I couldn’t help but respond on my way out the door: “It’s not funny.  I had a double mastectomy, and I’m dying of cancer.”

The guys were quick to apologize, sending one out to say quietly and sincerely, “Susan, I’m sorry.”

I forgave him, trying to laugh it off, but the truth is it hurt.  It really hurt.  Because when you wear a Hooters shirt, you’re telling the world how much you love the breasts — not necessarily the women behind them.

How will I go back into that room?

…

Edited to add: When I gathered my courage and went back in, they had covered up the shirts.  But the room felt … different … than it had first thing that morning.

No Princess Fights Alone

The next morning, I turned on the computer and could hear you all cheering me on from the comments.

As I scrolled down, I could hear you, and you weren’t sad any more. You were cheering me on, and my little Lego warrior princess, and loving my sons’ insight and innocence.

And then, I clicked through, and I saw the little warrior princess looking out at me confidently from Amie’s blog. Leticia’s. Amy’s, and Jean’s, and C.Mom’s and Abby’s. Marty’s and Laurie’s and Robin’s and Stephanie’s. Kate’s. Amy’s. Mel’s, and the LFCA community. Jenny, fellow IBC survivor in New Zealand. Sue, Margaret, Sunday. Ella, Kathryn, Anne, Jennifer, Heather, Stacey, Jennifer, Annie. Bon. Heather, Joa, Aimee. Cyndi, Rebekah, and Gayle. Michelle, Nicole, Stephanie, and Ilnap and the list is growing still –

I am blessed. beyond blessed, in every dimension of my life. I have a loving family, a strong and supportive husband, the work of my dreams, and the most amazing friends, who won’t let me wallow alone. They aren’t writing me off. and so neither will I.

As I stared, unbelieving, at the screen on Saturday, my little boys came in and climbed onto my lap for a snuggle. Widget looked up and was surprised to see his little warrior princess looking back. He asked, “Why is the Lego girl on the computer, Mommy?” and I told him what you all were doing. Both boys got happier and happier as we clicked through to post after post, blog after blog, and the warrior princess stood strong on page after page.

As they laughed in delight, I couldn’t help but join in, and we giggled and laughed and we turned off the computer to go read stories together, as it was nearly time for bed.

We all slept well that night, knowing that we do not fight alone, but with an army of princesses – Lego and real-life – and their actions go beyond the badge.

For each badge posted, Amie/MammaLoves will donate $1 to Crickett’s Answer to help women in need afford lymphedema sleeves and gloves to keep their arms and hands from swelling after a mastectomy (or two). Leticia/Techsavvymama will donate $1/comment on her post. Joanne/Pumditmom will donate $1/comment on her post. Go, comment, and spread the word – there is help available for breast cancer survivors needing lymphedema sleeves… and let me know if you’ve done something to help pass along that information (just use the words “lymphedema sleeves” and include a link to Crickett’s Answer). There are boxes of class 1 sleeves already at Crickett’s Answer that need to find their way to survivors in need. Class 2 sleeves will be bought as needed.

And if you just want to feel good about humanity? Go over to Amie’s post and see the growing army of princesses.

Together we fight, as the drugs I take each morning fight and starve and cut off the cancer cells so that they can’t grow any more.